


Cockroach Vignette #1: Claire De Lune

by BigSciencyBrain



Series: Refuge [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Implied Relationships, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-06
Updated: 2013-11-06
Packaged: 2017-12-31 15:54:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1033544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BigSciencyBrain/pseuds/BigSciencyBrain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve's memories may not be perfect, but that doesn't mean he doesn't remember.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cockroach Vignette #1: Claire De Lune

Steve rented a car and drove across the Golden Gate Bridge. He pulled into the small parking lot of the motel, leaning forward to stare up at the painted sign that read _The Sandpiper Inn_.

The name wasn’t familiar.

He took a deep breath, braced himself for the questions he’d get from Natasha when he finally called in to Stark Tower to tell the team that he’d arrived. But the SHIELD ordered therapist had decided there was no harm in letting Steve chase down a phantom motel in a city he’d never been to and couldn’t have known anything about.

Maybe he’d simply seen an ad for the motel on a television commercial or on the internet. It was possible that was all there was to it.

Feeling foolish, he shut off the car and climbed out, reaching into the back seat for his duffel bag. He slung it over one shoulder and headed for the entrance. It was small and cozy, with well tended, European style gardens and flowerbeds. A bell jingled above his head as he entered and he was careful to wipe his shoes against the mat inside the door. An older gentleman was seated behind the desk; his gold-rimmed spectacles and gray hair could have come straight from a Rockwell painting.

“Can I help you, son?” he asked, folding a newspaper neatly as he stood up.

Steve smiled. “I have a reservation. Rogers, Steve.”

“Rogers,” the man repeated. He peered down his nose at the ledge book sitting on the counter, searching through the columns until he found the right entry. “That’s right. All the way from the Big Apple. Vacation, Mister Rogers?”

Steve wasn’t used to being called anything but Captain; he had to shake himself to remember to respond. “Yes. Needed some time away from the city.”

“I think I have just the room for you.” The man smiled before ducking down behind the counter. When he rose back up, he had an old fashioned key with a carved, wooden sand dollar attached with a slender chain. “Restaurant opens at eight am for breakfast, closes at nine pm. Bar closes at ten pm. All the food is local and organic.”

“Sounds great.” Steve accepted the key.

“Just head down the hallway and up the stairs. You’ll be the last room on the left.”

“Thanks.” 

He followed the directions and found himself staring at an old wooden door stained so dark it was nearly black. The key turned in the lock with a click that he felt as much as heard. He had to close his eyes and take several deep breaths before he could turn the knob and push the door inward.

It was cozy, like the rest of the motel, and simply decorated with rich woods and dark fabrics. The television was small, as though merely an afterthought. He frowned as he stepped into the room and shut the door behind him. None of it looked familiar. There was a window overlooking the gardens and the ocean; a second door stained the same dark, almost black led to the bathroom. He set his duffel bag on the bed and moved to open the window, letting in the breeze coming in off of the water. He returned to the bed and sat down, elbows on his knees. 

What had he expected? Some miraculous revelation to explain what he couldn’t tell the SHIELD ordered therapist?

He couldn’t tell anyone that his nightmares weren’t about Chitauri invading New York or about his past with HYDRA. His attempts to dance around the true subject of his dreams had been what earned him a mandated vacation to a city that he’d never been to.

The breeze tugged at his hair. A gull cried somewhere far in the distance.

Suddenly, his skin felt too hot and his throat constricted. Dull pain settled in his chest; he knew there was nothing wrong with him physically, but the pain was as real as any wound. It was an endless, aching sense of loss, of something precious being ripped away from him. It felt as real as the wound from Bucky’s death, only he didn’t understand why.

He would give anything to remember what it was.

Pressing his forehead against the heels of his palms, he silently repeated what his therapist had told him. Not to resist, not trying to force the emotions away or control them. Just feel. He sat for several minutes, eyes shut and breathing against the strange tightness in his chest, with the sound of the ocean and the gulls drifting in through the window. Gradually, he became aware of the scent of one of the blooming hedges in the garden and the sounds of other birds. 

“Jetlag,” he told himself and the empty room. That’s what Natasha would say, what Bruce would say, what Tony would say. Even super soldiers got jetlag, didn’t they?

He shucked off his shoes and stretched out on the bed, staring up at the ceiling and listening to the waves and the birds. Every so often, he found himself wanting to speak as though there was someone there to hear him. 

As though Loki were there.

Steve rolled to his side and tugged the second pillow down so he could bury his face against it. He kept expecting the ever familiar shame to follow each and every thought of Loki. 

Because Loki was the enemy.

Because Loki had caused the deaths of thousands of innocent people and rained destruction down on the city he loved.

Because Loki was a man.

His breath stuttered in his throat and he squeezed his eyes shut tightly. All of it was wrong; everything he felt was wrong. It had to be wrong. He’d gone to the therapist hoping that SHIELD could fix what was wrong, take away all of the madness inside him, and make him whole again.

 _Steve_.

The voice in his head sounded so real – _felt so real_ – that Steve could almost believe that Loki was lying next to him. He dug his fingers into the pillow and prayed for the voice to go away. He’d come nearly three thousand miles to exorcise his nightmares and put to end to whatever sickness had taken over his mind. That was what he had been ordered to do and what he was supposed to do.

He always did what he was supposed to do; he was Captain America.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote _In The Realm Of Ungrateful Cockroaches_ in two parts: one from Loki's POV and one from Steve's. But trying to get two POVs into a time loop fic turned out to be a headache inducing mess. So I'm reworking bits of the Steve half into a series of vignettes.


End file.
